


Interregnum- The Bastard

by TheJackinati275



Category: Original Work
Genre: Based in the High-Medieval period, F/M, Light Fantasy, Medieval
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 13:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6241609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJackinati275/pseuds/TheJackinati275
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through the thick of the tree’s and to the rocks up on high atop the mountain peaks came the whispers through the air which descended through the country of Wrydia. The King is dead, his daughter in jeopardy and the baronies all bidding against one another in mortal combat, assaying themselves against the weakened victors, an endless cycle with growing numbers of dead. This is the Interregnum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interregnum- The Bastard

**Author's Note:**

> This will be my first original work that i have ever posted on AO3. I have released several stories for Fanficion.net though.
> 
> This story will mostly be categorised as a very light fantasy fiction, with Orcs and Humans and perhaps Elves in the story, as well as perhaps some magic here and there. Everything else will be as realistic as I can possibly make it to resemble the high medieval period, especially that of between roughly 1100-1200C.E, this means gambesons, riveted maille coats and no plate armour (Well besides for coat of plates or lamellar armour which are composed of tiny/small plates).

I am Boyueard of Vallien, of the northern regions of the canton of Orldelux, about four countries apace from Wrydia. First, one must sail through the narrow sea-straight of Ballingar, then through the country of Celea, where the men speak the dialect of Cle'apt. Then a man must linger through the narrow and pilgrim-laden lanes of Langri'er, where the men therein speak the dialect of La'ter. Finally, you must pass through the border of the kingdom of Aardeny, where the men speak the dialect of Aidon'e.

I am of course dismissing the true number of dialects therein, for a day's pace away are villages who might as well speak in foreign tongues. If i were to truly tell you about the number of Dialects, i could fill four-fold books, and would have nothing left to write about.

Perhaps, most dismaying to me in the great maze of tongues is that of Wrydian, a mixture of crude Orcish and Barbaric tongues with a little crispness that could only come from Ballingar. Oh to hear the words of Ballingar intertwined with the foul speak is the only saviour to the crude language that it is. The dialects in this most high and foul place, and the accents… so little could be said as to say that even the voiding of my bowels would sound far better, for i have no good to say.

But i should not distract myself on the subject of the horrible Wrydian tongue…

I am a simple regaler and teller of stories, for which i am renowned for my wit and for the silvered tongue that lay in my head, both products well-honed in courts to and fro of distant shores. I have even had occasion to meet a Dabardi, or an Ardark as the Orcs say, or a Plegardia as the men of Sartodila would call them. These Dabardi's, well-kept as they are with their great long ears and sheening black hair, are a very tall men, with a lilting voice like that of a happy bird. Dabardi's are good dancers, and in Sartodia, they follow the Dabardi in a great manner of ways, dancing along as their way of things, a custom therein to copy one another in strides, or so i have heard, and also to fight with one another like siblings, and to cry like them when they have been given a black eye.

And here i am, in Wrydia, a cruel fate for one such as me to befall.

To think that I must be told to watch from the sidelines, in the livery of my lord, whose name is Odo, on a borrowed horse who i have named Sabard 'foulwind', with liveried bodyguards alongside me…

Why, if a great wise man had told me of this coming time, i would have slapped him well across both cheeks and set them straight.

I looked down and saw the jealous-angry faces of my 'guardians', like creatures they were, bodyguards or dogs i could not decide, hounds for Odo that they are.

It became clear to me that my liveried bodyguards had wanted to fight but were relegated to defending me, and i could not blame them, rebellious schemers that they are. The reward for victory was plunder, but plunder was an affair of first-come first-served, and clearly my guards would not be first served. If i could fight, i would want plunder and women too, however foolish it might seem. But i am no soldier, and so i get no plunder, no spoils of war.

I turned my head, this time squinting in the distance as two columns of men fought in rank. Swordsmen with shields outstretched protected the flanks whilst the spearmen covered the men-at-arms, who were deflecting spear shafts with the flats of their swords, waiting for spearmen to pin their enemies weapons or their arms so that they themselves could approach closer and score a deadly blow without needless risk to themselves. Most of the men wore the gambeson and jacks of the footmen, good armour with great layers of linen and sheep's wool entwined and quilted into a solid piece. I have even heard talk of 'soldiers brine' which is added to a leather backing beneath, to give even more strength.

Odo's men were less in number than the enemy, but the enemy wore lesser quality wares, faded and weakened from a lifetime in the storehouses, worn and eroded, or rusty-linked armour not well-kept and of the previous hundred year's make or era i might hazard a guess. Numbers mattered for nothing to the enemy because Odo's men were the greater experienced and were most righteous in their devotion to their lord, such that they would naught fly in heat of battle, whatever hell beast may bare their teeth at them or bark or bite, for none would think it right to run from such a man as Odo. Was it out of fear, or loyalty, i sometimes found myself wondering?

Out of the corner of my eye did i see a standard, and that was then that i saw Odo's warhorse sputtering forward, its nose steaming breath that misted in the cold air. It was rainy ground, soddy. It squelched and sang with every footstep, and there were many of them, the chorus of the great many squelching footsteps from my lords own soldiers as they trampled the ground in their rush to pursue their now retreating enemies, men of the Queen, as pugnacious a woman as i have ever heard.

A shame that her men were not as such, running off as they were, true cowards they are. Cowards to which i shall strike glorious witty lines to parchment as i tell the tale of their chicken-like ways, flapping about the battlefield, all bark and no teeth as it were.

I heard a trumpet call, and i turned my head to see as Odo bid his horse to charge forth at a slow gallop, his lance, a good seven outstretched arms in length or some deal more, was placed up to an arm-full and ready to pierce, the tip honed sharp and well, glinting in the eye of the sun.

Now the horse was at a full gallop, and ready for the carnage, with ten other knights twenty or so paces behind, lances at the ready.

For all that could be said of their figure, with their lance's outstretched at a full gallop, they were the mortal visage of strength and vigour personified and of terror to their enemies, a great sundering blow would be dealt to any enemy they faced.

A mere moment later, i saw as Odo's lance pierced through a mailed footman. The maille squelched inwards, tugging up against the padded gambeson beneath before giving way with the cracking of rivets and the tearing of padding. The tip of his lance emerged out the other end of the mailed man, before the shaft broke off into manyfold pieces.

In his honed instinct he threw the remaining lance shaft to the ground and reached for his falchion.

His falchion was quite a sight, if i can say so myself. It is as long as his arm outstretched, with a reverse edge that spiked out about a finger long from the tip. On a hacking sweep or a cast blow, it could do terrible damage indeed, and had the impact to break bones beneath maile and gambeson.

I saw as Odo's horse bit and kicked as he charged by his own admission at another one of the queen's scum. A spear point was repeatedly thrust towards Odo's face all the while, but had no real impact upon hitting his front-caged helmet. In return, Odo reared his horse to sweep to the side, getting closer and closer until he sent his falchion down with might. The blade stalled momentarily upon hitting the man's gambeson, the slice cutting through several layers but leaving the man fine.

My lord levered the blade at another angle, pulled the blade back to rest near his shoulder and hacked down again with mighty vigour. I was sure that Odo would part flesh with his sword.

I was right, the tip-end of his falchion struck well. The well-layered garment gave way, and so too did the sword cut through flesh, an unseemly and off-putting amount of flesh that was carved out in a red gashed line for all to see.

The wound was such that the colour of bone was clearly visible from where i was one hundred paces or so to the back of Odo. It was a bone-deep cut that immobilised the man with pain, his left arm was hanging limp, shield arm useless, almost hacked off as it were.

The lord's warhorse did the rest to the pain stricken man, his warhorse kicked and bit and kicked and bit again and again until the spearman was on the ground. In response, my lords warhorse started by stepping and trampling on him over and over again. From the shouted cries and the cracking sounds, i knew that the enemy footman would soon be dead. That terrible noise of cracking bones would chill my spine for life.

With the fight finished, i thought back on the prospect of dealing with my lord.

"A dreadful man indeed, i will have to write much to make the masses happy with him. Where do i begin, what words do i use, what article do i write to do him good?" I said to myself, wondering upon words and phrases that might make the lord happy whenever he was to come and greet me.


End file.
